Posted in 2015

Scars April 04 2014

Old Memory

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One cannot travel through life devoid of scars.

Each nightly ritual reminds of stories past as you

Sluice away at the open wounds of the day.

I trace a silver line on the curve of my foot,

Conjuring up memories of hurried feet along train tracks,

The shortcut to home. Furtively listening for the train whistle

That would squeal on us, my brother and I hastened home.

In my haste, I stumbled on a broken beer bottle, flung negligently.

The gash was deep, he tore his shirt in strips and bound me safe.

I hobbled home. We laughed. My brother gave me the shirt off his back.

I retrace the silver line fondly.

 

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Author:

A Wife, Mother, Grandmother with tons of experience in the arena called *Life* I love information, and endeavor to utilize it as practically as possible. I have worked as a Healthcare coordinator, HR Manager for over 26 yrs, and 19 +years as a Property Manager. I have raised 4 children and have 8 grandchildren. I love to write poetry and short stories, cook, explore religious experiences and be in charge of stuff :)

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